Read Online The Descent to Madness by Gareth K Pengelly - Free Book Online
Authors: Gareth K Pengelly
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positions as leaders of warbands, as with Raga himself. And this had invariably caused enmity with the other clans.
Hence the fracas of earlier.
He had lain, still clothed and wrapped in furs, his breath misting in the inside of his tent, listening to the muted conversation of the guards outside. When they had all disappeared off into the forest he’d cursed under his breath. Damn amateurs! The men often talked of his youth and relative inexperience, whenever they thought him not listening, but now at the first howl of a wolf they all go haring off into the forest, not even leaving one sentry at camp! He snarled as he snatched up his swords and parted the curtain of his tent, blinking in the bright orange glow of the fire – and that was when he saw the intruder.
The Wildman was gawping into one of the wagons, the spit in his hands, three rabbits still impaled on it; the guards obviously thinking to treat themselves to a midnight feast. The figure was lean, wiry, with hard, sinewy limbs. His skin was encrusted with filth and his hair long and unkempt. Raga could smell him from across the camp – how he hadn’t been devoured by the wolves whilst living in the forest was a mystery. Either way, he would make a good slave to add to the cargo; this season’s harvest would bring a good income for Clan Two Scimitars once they returned to the city.
His swords safely slung over his shoulder, he slowly bent down to his ankle, reaching for his throwing knife, and with a confident grin he slid it out of its leather sheath, aiming for an incapacitating shoulder blow.
It all happened in a blur; his arm swept up, knife soaring through the air, covering the gap between them in a fraction of a second, his target completely unawares. Then, instantly, impossibly, the Wildman span around on the spot, raising his spit like a shield, the knife plunging harmlessly into one of the roasted carcasses.
He’d missed. Anger flared.
“I never miss…” he growled, reaching for his swords.
***
Stone looked down incredulously at the small, bronze dagger that stuck out of the middle rabbit and gulped. The slave trader came stalking over, murmuring some low and menacing threat in the same harsh tongue the guards were speaking earlier, unsheathing long and lethal looking swords as he did. Stone glanced left and right; he could hear the guards returning, only paces from the camp now, not knowing whether to dart left or right to escape.
He was put in mind of his confrontation with the wolf-pack only a few days previous; though he was damn sure that this mean looking warrior edging closer and closer wouldn’t be so easy to outwit. His mind raced.
“Hungry?”
He threw the rabbit laden spit hard at his attacker, hoping to distract him long enough to make a break for it, but as he feared the warrior was too smart, batting the carcasses away with the flat of a sword and leaping forwards to attack. Leaning backwards, Stone barely avoided decapitation as a blade whistled past in a dazzling arc. He took a few more steps back, quickly, hoping to open some distance up between him and his would-be-killer, but the seasoned warrior was having none of it, following him with footwork swift and sure.
With a humourless grin that spoke of confidence in his skill, the slaver lunged forwards with a flourish of blades, each strike a killing blow. A cry of desperation erupted from Stone’s lips as he bent his every spare shred of will towards slowing the deadly sweeps. Sound went muted, as though he were underwater; the flames danced languidly in the campfire and the leaves rustled lazily in the trees above, but still the blades came fast, such was the speed and skill of their wielder.
Stone dodged left, then right, ducking, weaving, desperately seeking a way out of the web of bronze
Hence the fracas of earlier.
He had lain, still clothed and wrapped in furs, his breath misting in the inside of his tent, listening to the muted conversation of the guards outside. When they had all disappeared off into the forest he’d cursed under his breath. Damn amateurs! The men often talked of his youth and relative inexperience, whenever they thought him not listening, but now at the first howl of a wolf they all go haring off into the forest, not even leaving one sentry at camp! He snarled as he snatched up his swords and parted the curtain of his tent, blinking in the bright orange glow of the fire – and that was when he saw the intruder.
The Wildman was gawping into one of the wagons, the spit in his hands, three rabbits still impaled on it; the guards obviously thinking to treat themselves to a midnight feast. The figure was lean, wiry, with hard, sinewy limbs. His skin was encrusted with filth and his hair long and unkempt. Raga could smell him from across the camp – how he hadn’t been devoured by the wolves whilst living in the forest was a mystery. Either way, he would make a good slave to add to the cargo; this season’s harvest would bring a good income for Clan Two Scimitars once they returned to the city.
His swords safely slung over his shoulder, he slowly bent down to his ankle, reaching for his throwing knife, and with a confident grin he slid it out of its leather sheath, aiming for an incapacitating shoulder blow.
It all happened in a blur; his arm swept up, knife soaring through the air, covering the gap between them in a fraction of a second, his target completely unawares. Then, instantly, impossibly, the Wildman span around on the spot, raising his spit like a shield, the knife plunging harmlessly into one of the roasted carcasses.
He’d missed. Anger flared.
“I never miss…” he growled, reaching for his swords.
***
Stone looked down incredulously at the small, bronze dagger that stuck out of the middle rabbit and gulped. The slave trader came stalking over, murmuring some low and menacing threat in the same harsh tongue the guards were speaking earlier, unsheathing long and lethal looking swords as he did. Stone glanced left and right; he could hear the guards returning, only paces from the camp now, not knowing whether to dart left or right to escape.
He was put in mind of his confrontation with the wolf-pack only a few days previous; though he was damn sure that this mean looking warrior edging closer and closer wouldn’t be so easy to outwit. His mind raced.
“Hungry?”
He threw the rabbit laden spit hard at his attacker, hoping to distract him long enough to make a break for it, but as he feared the warrior was too smart, batting the carcasses away with the flat of a sword and leaping forwards to attack. Leaning backwards, Stone barely avoided decapitation as a blade whistled past in a dazzling arc. He took a few more steps back, quickly, hoping to open some distance up between him and his would-be-killer, but the seasoned warrior was having none of it, following him with footwork swift and sure.
With a humourless grin that spoke of confidence in his skill, the slaver lunged forwards with a flourish of blades, each strike a killing blow. A cry of desperation erupted from Stone’s lips as he bent his every spare shred of will towards slowing the deadly sweeps. Sound went muted, as though he were underwater; the flames danced languidly in the campfire and the leaves rustled lazily in the trees above, but still the blades came fast, such was the speed and skill of their wielder.
Stone dodged left, then right, ducking, weaving, desperately seeking a way out of the web of bronze
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